


Dream Not Of Other Worlds

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ar-Pharazôn sets out to end Sauron's dominion over Middle-earth to assert the claim for himself.<br/>When he takes the enemy hostage, it is only a matter of time until the mighty king of Númenor succumbs to temptation...</p><p>(randomly filling in the blanks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Not Of Other Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> Lately I've come across quite a lot of those fics that are made up by small scenes and snippets and I wanted to try it for myself. -- so this is basically just a series of drabbles.
> 
> I imagined Ar-Pharazôn to look like Mark Strong (because I'm currently a little obsessed with him), if that's of interest to you, and the Númenorian culture to be a bit... Persian perhaps, or perhaps Phoenician, in any case: not British or Central/Northern European. And Mairon is just pretty, oh so pretty. (maybe, on closer inspection, sort of Hans Matheson-pretty? :P)
> 
> Just in case your memory is a tad rusty, a short who is who:
> 
> Mairon = fair form of Sauron, to be seen last before the fall of Númenor  
> Ar-Pharazôn the Golden = ursurper of the throne of Númenor which should have rightfully belonged to his cousin  
> Tar-Míriel whom he wed against her will and against tradition to gain the sceptre of the sea-kings, now called Ar-Zimraphel  
> Amandil = distantly related to them both, a lord of the House of Elros, father to Elendil, who was the father of Isildur
> 
> Armenelos, the Golden City, is the capital of Elenna, the Island of Stars, the Realm of Númenor, Kingdom of the Dúnedain

He comes alone, without army, without so much as an escort, and not like Pharazôn imagined, shrouded by smoke and shadows, but in broad daylight, at noon, when the sun is brightest, blazing off tents and banners. He wears no armour, no weapon, not even a crown, only simple white robes and a golden head band to tame his unruly hair. And yet he shines like the sun itself. 

Pharazôn has wondered whether his minions might have crawled back into their holes at the first sight of the host before their gates, fled like the cowards they are and left their ruler to the mercy of his enemies. But now that he lays eyes on him, such treachery seems impossible – for who could ever forsake such a master? 

Perhaps they could not bear his presence, he thinks, they are after all only creatures of the night, and Mordor's ruler is not at all like his land of cinder and ashes, but radiant, fairer than anything the great King of Númenor could have dreamed of, youth and beauty and power woven into perfection, he is everything his people has ever longed for. 

If he has considered putting his foe to the sword, thrust a blade through his throat, lest he swear fealty to the dominion of Men, the notion is forgotten now, and be it merely because it takes no threats of violence to bend him to Pharazôn's will – without being prompted (or even ordered) the proud Maia falls to his knees, gracefully, with downcast eyes, and surrenders. And the king is not even surprised at the familiar pang of want he feels in his breast. Are the spoils of war not as sweet as victory itself? And does he not ever take what he desires? 

__

Pharazôn claims that prudence and foresight led him to take Sauron captive; and his advisors praise him for it, while he smiles all the more graciously to hide the wantonness he carries in his heart. They must not see through the pretence, may have no inkling of how breathless their king is when he thinks about the treasure he holds, this powerful, eternal creature, bound and adorned by his golden chains and shackles, ready to submit to his will. So he keeps smiling like the wise and just ruler he is and talks of the glory of Men and the defeat of Darkness.

And he does not lay hand on the hostage for many days and nights, but endures the persistent ache of unfulfilled longing like any wise and just king must.

__

The Maia is not surprised though when he at last comes to him in the dead of night. He only looks at the king with these dazzingly brilliant eyes, as if he could see to the bottom of his very soul and would not judge what he found there, and tilts his head in acknowledgement and the way he speaks his name in greeting is both reverence and forgiveness: “Ar-Pharazôn.”

Only later, Pharazôn will realise that it was the first time he spoke his name at all.

__

Armenelos is indeed golden in the evening light, even if not for the copper of its roofs (which have been turned green by the weather a long time ago) but by the grace of the late sun alone, which bathes the high walls in its gentle gleam and paints their bone-pallor the colour of candle-flame. It catches in the scarlet flutter of the banners and in the stitchings of royal crest upon them. It flashes in the bracelets of Elenna's ruler, shimmers on his skin, pours over him like a liquid crown. He is as golden as is his city, the great King of Númenor, tall and haughty and utterly beautiful.

The view from the balconies of the King's House is just as breath-taking as the tales and songs claim, but Pharazôn has neither eyes for the splendour of his city nor for the admiration it inspires in his hostage. He just stares to the West, where the sea glitters in the distance like jewels in the treacherous light and the Undying Lands stretch like a forbidden whore.

“Behold”, the king says and spreads his arms wide in a mock-gesture of pride. “The grandeur of the Golden City. Behold the wealth and power of Numenór and all the generous gifts that are to distract from the curse of mortality placed upon my people. Like these sunsets that convey just enough of _their_ immortal glory to make us long for it... See how the Western light is casting _their_ illusion upon our houses. Does its softness not make forget all anguish? Does it not deceive the eye and feign abundance where there is only ruin? Is it not mere varnish poured over decay?”

Pharazôn is so captured by his delusion of misery, he does not notice Mairon's glance or the faint twist of his lips, that could already betray a sense of triumph. Yet when the King of the Dúnedain turns to face his hostage, there is nothing but compassion to be found in his handsome features. 

“Would not a truly rich city be free from death?”, Pharazôn asks, and Mairon only nods in silent sympathy and reverts his gaze to the magnificent city beneath them and he watches the shadows gather in the lanes and alleys and how the darkness begins to fall upon Númenor. 

__

“My golden king”, he whispers, his words are a knife twisting in his heart, his tongue searing on his flesh, like a brand, if a captive could ever own his captor. Pharazôn leans into his touch and savours the skill of his clever fingers and mouth, how they take the dull ache that torments him during his too-long days and sharpen it into a poignant kind of pain with all the expertise to be expected of an accomplished sword-smith, twisting it until he is short of begging, until his mind is clouded with poisonous pleasure and the lust thrums in his veins. And only then does Mairon begin in earnest his ritual of worship and fealty and engulfs him in the sweetness of his body.

__

His queen is the first to recognise his obsession, and she does not even try to hide her disgust. It is plain as day in the way she looks at him, so full of contempt and something akin to pity – Pharazôn does not know, whether it is contempt for him or pity for the captured enemy, or the other way around, but he tries not to dwell on it. He is the king after all and can do as he pleases. She of all should know that. She whom he called cousin once, and now calls wife. She whom he took against her will, whom he wed to usurp not only her throne but also her body. She was as helpless then as she is now, the pious daughter of Tar-Palantir.

But then she dares to speak out against him, call him a fool for falling for the enemy's ruse, and he can't have her contradict his decisions. The bruise the back of his hand left on her cheek will bear testimony to that.

“You forget yourself, Zimraphel”, he says as she lies to his feet, weeping, his heart unstirred by her pleading. “It is not your place to question my rule.” 

And that night, Mairon shall reward him for his intransigence. 

__

The time comes that he cannot wait for the sun to sink and night to fall to see him, to curl his hand gently against his neck, feel the flutter of his immortal heart beat against the possessive splay of his fingers. He wants him by his side at every hour of the day, have him advise in affairs of state, first among his councillors. 

“They will not like it”, Mairon says once he tells him, and runs his fingers admiringly over the wide stretch of Pharazôn's collar bone and down the hard plane of his stomach.

“Am I not their king?” A temper is gathering on Pharazôn's face like the rain clouds are over the sea, a darkness that is sharp around the edges, so sharp it makes Mairon draw back his hand, lest he cut himself. 

It's a reaction that immediately softens the king's demeanour. “I shall not permit objection to my orders”, he says and he cups Marion's cheek in what is undoubtedly meant to be a soothing gesture, as if for the moment he has forgotten that he is comforting a demi-god.

The breeze catches in their robes, harbinger of the thunderstorm that is looming in the West, tar-black and heavy in the sky, and it carries still the fleeting fragrance of Valinor's everlasting bloom, even though underneath its heart-stirring sweetness there already lies a tang of iron.

__

Tar-Mairon's presence meets less resistance in the council than was to be expected. On the first days some frown upon the way, Pharazôn's hand rests against the small of Mairon's back, but the people of Númenor are a race of warriors and such companionship between men is not unheard of, and they would not rouse their king's wrath about such matters. No one dares question the value of Mairon's advice, for when he speaks he tells them of the beginning of time as they have never known it, tells them of Men's enthralment to fate, and of the chains the Valar devised for the mortals to bind them forever to their will. All he must do is water the seed that has been planted a long time ago, and soon the defiance against the order or Eru Ilúvatar flourishes and blooms in the heart of Pharazôn's people.

“Has not the House of Elros the same claim on the heritage of their forbears as their immortal cousins?”, Mairon asks them, with fire in his eyes and flattery on his tongue. “Do they not also descend from the union of Thingol and Melian, and are they not thereby, by the right of their line entitled to their share of lands and wealth and everlasting youth?”

And they will cheer him for these speeches, and soon it is not only Pharazôn's favour that consolidates Mairon's position amongst his advisors, for to the Men of Númenor his words are as sweet as mulled wine and as intoxicating, and only Amandil lord of Andúnië withstands their lure and clutches on to reason, even if foolishness and reason are about to become indistinguishable and so are loyalty and treason.

“By all that is holy, have you forgotten that he is the enemy, Al-Pharazôn”, he inquires once he finds his king alone, “have you forgotten your duties to your wife? To your people? How can you have him spread his lies and even reinforce them? Have we not fought that kind of Darkness for two thousand years?”

Pharazôn leans back in his chair, his fingers curled loosely around his cup of wine. He is calm like the sea before the tempest, his eyes golden mirrors, his lips a serene line. “I love you dearly, cousin”, he says, “so I will forgive your transgression. But I won't have you standing against me. So from now on, you either hold your insolent tongue, of I shall rip it from your mouth.”  
And he smiles a cold smile, raises his cup as if toasting to it and drinks, and Amandil cannot help but flinch at the way the blood-red of the wine is staining his mouth.

__

The rebellion begins to smoulder before Melkor's name is even spoken in public. The Elf-friends appear to sense his might returning, Mairon claims to see it in their dreams. “They do know the truth”, he says, “know that everything comes from the Darkness, they just don't want to admit it. It would shatter all they believe in.”

Pharazôn has little patience for qualms of conscience, for him everything is black or white, but Mairon only laughs at such simplification. “One cannot fight fear with fear”, he says. “You must take away the decision they are afraid of. Strip them of the choice. That is the simplicity you want. That is freedom.”

And what pretty words Mairon finds to paint his king this picture of a world without fear, without death, a world in which the riches are plentiful and life without end.

__

“Cut down the tree, Ar-Pharazôn. Sever this last bond of slavery.” The murmur is splintering into moans, then incoherent sounds as Mairon moves against him, like he could grind the words between their slick bodies, make them seep into his skin and mingle with the pleasure the friction invokes, and even though the king only snarls then, and rolls them over, pins Mairon's wrists over his head and growls “I will hear no more of it”, they have already begun to settle and spread in him like venom. 

__

It is the nightly assault on the tree that makes him change his mind.  
“You shall have your will, Mairon”, Pharazôn says, cold fury in his voice, “and your temple, too, while we're at it.”

And he himself takes up the axe to drive it into Nimloth's trunk, chop at the white wood until it bleeds red-hot like a living, breathing thing.

Just like later, amidst smoke and fire, he will take up a blade to cut the fear from those who oppose him, to offer it as sacrifice on the altar of Melkor's temple, and the blood will well up from broken skin and his knife will slice through flesh and bone, until all of Armenelos is reeking of salt and iron.

__

It is after that, that their relations are changing, shifting. It starts almost subtle, in the way, Mairon kisses him, deep and sharp-teethed and impatient, it is just a little too hard, a little too dominant. Of a sudden his nails are ragged, his lips bruising. When he lies on top of him, he is heavier than before, stronger, and hot to the touch. And then comes the day, he holds him down, hands like iron bands, and when Pharazôn struggles, he only laughs. “You did not think all this would not come at a price?”, he whispers into his ear. “But you'll see, having no choice can be very liberating.”

And for some strange reason he will be right about that.


End file.
